


It's No Great Mystery

by RileyC



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vinnie is convalescing at the Feversham Clinic, following the events of the last adventure, wondering where Pendergast's gotten to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's No Great Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILER WARNING** Big ones for _Fever Dream_ , and speculative ones for the upcoming _Cold Vengeance_.
> 
> Notes: I have no idea what the Gentlemen will be basing Kilchurn Lodge on, but these two sites, for [Mar Lodge](http://www.marlodgeestate.org.uk/) & [this online brochure](http://www.5stardestinations.com/Scottish-Hunting-Lodge-138.php), which supplied the quoted material about it did nicely for me.
> 
>  _To Say Nothing of the Dog_ is by Connie Willis, and if you haven't read it, you really should.
> 
> Also, part of the inspiration for this, and the source of the title, was [Stuck With You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Re30H83sIQ), by Huey Lewis. BTW, this was previously posted on my LJ under the title, "Much Too Late;" it appears here otherwise unaltered.

“How are _you_ doing?” Vincent D'Agosta asked, giving Nora Kelly a long look.

Patting his hand, Nora smiled, nodding that she understood what he was asking. “Some days are harder than others, but … I'm better.”

“Getting better every day,” Margo Green chimed in. “We're keeping her busy at the museum.”

Vincent gave them both a wary look, saying, “Busy with what? Not another extravaganza?”

“Nothing like that scheduled right now, no,” Margo said, looking like her own memories of gala events at the museum were still all too sharp and clear.

“Good, because it's going to be a few weeks before I'm up to chasing around that place.”

“ _You_ ,” Nora patted his hand again, “need to concentrate on getting well and not worrying about the rest of us.”

“Yeah, easier said than done.” The events they had all shared had bound them together pretty tight.

He tried to stifle a yawn but it didn't fool them for a second. Bustling around, getting ready to leave, they made sure he had everything he needed in easy reach, told him to get some rest, bestowed some careful hugs, and with promises to be back to see him in a couple of days finally took their leave.

After half an hour of their cheerful chatter, the quiet in the room was almost oppressive for a moment. Although that likely had as much to do with him being stuck in this hospital room, luxurious as it was, and growing increasingly restless with this enforced idleness. The view it afforded of the Hudson River Valley was spectacular, but only added to his frustration. He wanted to be out there, enjoying this beautiful spring day, not stuck in here watching it all pass him by.

Pendergast would probably tell him to cultivate some patience. Of course Pendergast would have to actually put in an appearance to tell him anything.

He hadn't seen hide or hair of the other man in days now, not since he'd been admitted to the Feversham Clinic. Up to that point, Pendergast had been hovering like the proverbial mother hen. But since then - nada. Vincent had a couple of ideas as to what lay behind that disappearance, only adding to his impatience to get out of here before anybody did anything stupid.

Since that wasn't an option just yet… He sighed, settling back and trying to relax. When that didn't work, he reached for the stack of paperbacks Nora and Margo had brought him, sorting through the titles. Vampires, vampires - what the hell was it with women and vampires? - Robert Crais, James Rollins, and something called _To Say Nothing of the Dog_.

He flipped that one to read the book description: Ned Henry is badly in need of a rest. He's been shuttling between the 21st century and the 1940s searching for a Victorian atrocity called the bishop's bird stump. It's part of a project to restore the famed Coventry Cathedral, destroyed in a Nazi air-raid over a hundred years earlier. But then Verity Kindle, a fellow time traveler, inadvertently brings back something from the past. Now Ned must jump back to the Victorian era to help Verity put things right--not only to save the project but to prevent altering history itself.

Time Travel? Not his usual thing, and at nearly 500 pages it didn't look like a quick read, still… He considered the Crais and Rollins books, decided he'd had enough action and shoot outs in real life for the moment, and cracked open the other one.

There were five of us--Carruthers and the new recruit and myself, and Mr. Spivens and the verger. It was late afternoon on November the fifteenth, and we were in what was left of Coventry Cathedral, looking for the bishop's bird stump.

Or at any rate I was. The new recruit was gawking at the blown-out stained-glass windows, Mr. Spivens was over by the vestry steps digging up something, and Carruthers was trying to convince the verger we were from the Auxiliary Fire Service…

~*~

Quietly letting himself into Vincent's room, Aloysius Pendergast shut the door, leaning back against it for a moment as he took in the scene. Most of the room was in shadow, but he could make out an array of cheerful get well cards, flowers - and most importantly, the steady rise and fall of Vincent's chest.

He stood by the bedside simply absorbing that rhythm, drawing comfort from it.

Vincent was alive - alive, and making a rather remarkable recovery. That was what he should concentrate on, not the nightmarish might-have-beens. His failures were looming rather large in his mind just lately, though.

Pulling a chair close to Vincent's bedside, Pendergast took out the brochure he'd brought along, resuming his internal debate. Viewed logically, dispassionately, there was no case whatsoever to be made in favor of involving Vincent any further. Using that same criteria, there never had been. Any police officer could have done the _basic_ work required. That, of course, was the crux of the matter. As much as he relied on Vincent's skills, it was the other man's companionship - his steadying influence - that drew him back to Vincent again and again.

Friendship of the sort he'd found in Vincent D'Agosta was a rare and precious thing. Was involving him in these dangerous escapades the way to show his appreciation?

Sitting there, watching Vincent sleep, Pendergast could keenly remember the burst of exhilaration he'd felt at the Jeremy Grove estate, spotting Vincent laying out crime tape. For a moment he hadn't quite believed it. Vincent was supposed to be up in Canada, writing novels. What was he doing in Southampton, wearing sergeant's stripes? Curiosity had propelled him to make contact, but he could have left it at that. Becoming involved in the Grove case, bringing Vincent with him, had not been necessary. A whole chain of events need never have occurred.

True, Vincent might still be stuck in Southampton, his skills withering, the mundane routine eroding his spirit. Abysmal as that prospect was, at least he wouldn't be here, recovering from a gunshot that had so nearly ended his life.

Which path would Vincent choose?

But even as the question passed through his mind, Pendergast knew the answer. And arriving back at the heart of his dilemma, Pendergast suddenly knew what he had to do.

He slipped the brochure back in his pocket and stood up, preparing to as quietly slip away as he'd come, when a faint sound of distress from Vincent halted him.

Shifting restlessly, head rolling on the pillow, Vincent was deep in the throes of a dream - a bad one - and Pendergast aimed a troubled look at the door. He could still leave; alert the nurse, and leave things in her capable hands … and make his escape.

Ashamed at even briefly entertaining so craven an impulse, Pendergast leaned over the bed, catching hold of Vincent's shoulders to wake him.

~*~

 _He and Pendergast were in the Rolls, tearing down some back country road, gunfire exploding all around them. The windshield shattered, and thinking Pendergast was hit, he lunged for the steering wheel, trying to maneuver the big car off the road and into the concealment of trees and brush. Something slammed into his back, knocking the breath out of him, tearing a fiery path through his chest--_

“Vincent!”

He opened his eyes, would have jerked upright, but Pendergast's hands gripped his shoulders, holding him still. From a distance, he could hear Pendergast murmuring soothing nonsense to him, assuring Vincent he was safe, it was just a dream, just a dream. Concentrating on that, on the feel of Pendergast's long, white fingers stroking his hair, Vincent drew in one deep breath, then another, gradually coming back from the dream.

“Sorry,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face, feeling the clammy sweat that had broken out.

“Not at all,” Pendergast assured him.

Studying him for a moment, Pendergast's own expression troubled, the agent disappeared into the bathroom, returning swiftly with a cool cloth. Carefully wiping the soft cloth along Vincent's forehead and face, the nape of his neck, he met Vincent's eyes, asking, “Better?”

Vincent nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” Strange, this should have felt embarrassing, being so vulnerable around Pendergast. He did hate it, just on the general principal of not liking to ever be helpless, but there wasn't any sense of shame or fear. He'd do the same for Pendergast, after all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pendergast said, searching his eyes, something haunted at the back of his.

Shoulders lifting in a shrug, Vincent shook his head. “Not much to talk about. We came under fire, I got shot, fade to black.” That really was about all he remembered. Pendergast didn't have that relative comfort zone of fuzzy memory, and Vincent suspected the scene replayed in Pendergast's mind way too often.

“Vincent…”

“If you're going to apologize again, save your breath.”

A trace of exasperation in his expression, Pendergast said, “Am I permitted to express a profound regret that you were injured?”

“Yeah,” Vincent nodded, “you're allowed that. Would have thought me surviving and getting better would be kind of profound too.” That's what scored highest on his own personal scale anyway.

“Believe me,” Pendergast caught Vincent's hand between his own, “it is. I…” Lips compressed in a tight line, he shook his head, looking away. “I regret what happened more than I can say,” he finally said, voice a hoarse whisper.

“Hey,” Vincent turned his hand to clasp Pendergast's, squeezing, “look at me.”

Pendergast raised his head, not flinching at Vincent's close scrutiny.

“You know you look like hell, right?” Vincent said, not happy with what he saw. To anyone else, this was probably the Special Agent Pendergast they expected to see. Immaculately tailored black suit, everything about him composed and restrained, not a hair out of place. Not too many other people would bother to look beyond that and note the tired, pinched expression, or that the lean form had grown minutely thinner. “When's the last time you ate or slept?”

Not bothering to try and cover up, Pendergast's slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Not recently,” he said, a wry smile accompanying the admission.

“So that's why you haven't been around, because you've been off brooding?”

A guilty look flashed in the silvery eyes and Pendergast glanced away again. “Something like that.”

“Yeah,” Vincent sighed, “that's what I figured.” Well, that or Pendergast had gone off half-cocked on the next step of his personal vengeance quest. “So you haven't been doing anything nuts then?”

Pendergast gave him a look of mild reproof. “When have I ever done anything 'nuts,' as you so charmingly put it?”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “You want a list? Because I can give you a list.”

“You've never complained.”

“It's not about complaining. It's about worrying over you risking your neck.”

Expression sober, Pendergast nodded, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on the bedspread. “And yours,” he said, quietly, long fingers picking at the thread.

“I'm not complaining about that, either.”

“Perhaps you should,” Pendergast said, still intent on that pesky bit of thread “Captain Hayward--“

“Laura doesn't get us. Hell, I'm not sure I get us,” Vincent scooted up a little more, reaching to stop Pendergast fiddling with that thread, keeping hold of his hand. “You're a pain in the ass with all your secrets and nuttier than a truckload of fruitcakes half the time,” Pendergast's head shot up at that, expression about as flabbergasted as Vincent had ever seen it, “but,” he squeezed that cool hand, “when I was drowning you threw me a lifeline, and I'm never forgetting that.”

Not quite looking at him, Pendergast murmured, “You have more than repaid me, Vincent.”

“I ever give you cause to think I'm big on quid pro quo?”

Looking chastened, Pendergast shook his head. “Never. Forgive me.”

“You're forgiven,” Vincent said and gave his hand another squeeze. “What time is it anyway?”

“After midnight,” Pendergast said, sitting back, getting up after a moment and moving around the room, examining the cards and flowers as if needing to bleed off some energy. “Margo and Nora were here?” he said, setting a card back in its place.

“Yeah, stopped by this afternoon. Guess they have this crazy idea they should come during regular visiting hours.”

“Very sensible of them.”

Going to the window, he tugged back the curtain, contemplating the view - or something. Vincent got the feeling of something in the air and figured he'd find out what it was soon enough. Sure enough, after another couple of moments Pendergast came back and sat back down, taking something out of his suit coat and offering it to Vincent.

Taking it, and seeing it was some kind of travel brochure, Vincent asked, “What's this?”

“Kilchurn Lodge. It's in the Scottish highlands, about ninety minutes from Aberdeen. Offers excellent hunting, fishing, and assorted other activities.”

Nodding, Vincent leafed through the brochure, wondering where this was going. “Looks nice.”

“Have you ever been?”

“To Scotland? Nope.” Before Pendergast came along, the most exotic trip he'd ever taken had been to Disneyworld with the kids. Kilchurn Lodge, he read,  is of great historical importance and the interiors are quite magnificent and so representative of the traditional Victorian opulence associated with hunting lodges. There is a wealth of native Caledonian pine forests, heather moors and vast tracts of unspoiled wilderness which provide romantic and classic settings… “Victorian opulence, huh?”

“There is no dearth of creature comforts,” Pendergast said, watching him intently.

“Yeah, I always hate it when there's a dearth of anything.” Hiding his smile in the brochure, Vincent read on. Golf, fishing, hunting, horseback riding… “Snow boarding?”

Pendergast gave a slight shrug. “In season, of course. What do you think?” he asked as Vincent handed the brochure back.

Giving him a considering look, Vincent said, “I guess that depends on what you have in mind.”

“I was thinking that a fortnight's sojourn there might be just the thing to aid your recuperation.”

“A fortnight's sojourn, huh?” Vincent eyed him thoughtfully, turning that over, not believing a word of it. “Okay, now what's the real reason?”

Appearing somewhat flummoxed for a moment, Pendergast said, “Am I truly that transparent?”

Vincent smiled at his dismayed look. “Let's just say I've done enough turns on the dance floor with you to be familiar with your moves by now.”

Nodding slowly, Pendergast said, “Unusual choice of metaphor, but I gather your meaning.”

“I'm sure you're still Mr. Inscrutable to everyone else.”

“Thank you, I'm sure.” Gathering his thoughts, Pendergast nodded and said, “Very well then. While it's true that I have been … dwelling on certain matters,” he made a gesture to indicate Vincent's condition, “the other reason I have been absent is because of returning to Louisiana to follow up on a few matters.”

“Looking for the shooter, you mean.”

Pendergast nodded. “Among other things.”

“And…?”

“And, when I stopped in at Penumbra, Maurice said a most curious thing.” Leaning forward, as if needing to see Vincent's eyes, to read his reaction, Pendergast said, “Maurice said he was glad to hear that you were doing better, and then mentioned that Mr. Judson would be pleased to hear that as well.”

Vincent's eyebrows drew toward each other, the expression in his eyes perplexed. “Esterhazy? How would he even know about my shooting? Did you tell him?”

“I did not. Maurice did, however.”

“Maurice?” Frowning, still puzzling it out, Vincent murmured, thoughtful, “Maurice has been updating your brother-in-law…” He looked straight at Pendergast. “Whose idea was it?”

“Judson's. It seems he contacted Maurice, expressing concern about me - something about fearing a breakdown - and asked to be kept updated on my actions, so that an intervention might be attempted if it appeared a crisis was impending.”

“Wow,” voice dry with sarcasm, Vincent said, “what a thoughtful guy.”

“Indeed.”

“I'm sorry,” Vincent touched his hand again, “I know you liked the guy.” Man, the betrayals just kept coming. Not for the first time, he marveled at how Pendergast bore up under all of that. He wasn't sure how he'd do in the same circumstances.

Pendergast nodded, exhaled a deep, pent up breath. “I never knew him, Vincent - anymore than I ever knew Helen,” he said, the confession clearly a painful one.

Okay, so maybe Pendergast wasn't bearing up that great. “So what's the plan?” he asked, thinking it best to stay on point just now. “Or is this going to be another case where you only fill me in as things go along?”

“No,” Pendergast said, that haunted look back in his eyes. “Never again.”

Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Never?”

Pendergast sighed. “I am attempting to break a bad habit here, Vincent; some encouragement would be appreciated.”

“Oh, don't worry, I'll encourage you plenty.”

“But you'll believe it when you see it?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Nodding, Pendergast said, “I cannot claim your skepticism to be unwarranted. Very well then. I've written to Judson, accepting his invitation to take a holiday with him at Kilchurn Lodge, but I intend to be there ahead for him - for him to be the quarry.”

Vincent felt a chill go up his spine at how matter-of-factly Pendergast said that. “That could be a dangerous game.”

“Thus my desire to have you with me.” He held up a hand to stop Vincent's reply. “Your skills and abilities are invaluable to me, Vincent, but your value to me goes far beyond that - and I don't believe I've ever told you that.”

Throat feeling tight, Vincent shook his head. “You don't have to. I--“

“I do. You might have died, Vincent - I thought you were, lying in my arms, your life bleeding away in some godforsaken middle of nowhere … and I would have never told you how highly I value your friendship, your faith in me.” Silvery eyes a bit brighter than usual, Pendergast paused a moment, as if his own throat was constricted. “I did tell you that you, and Helen, are the only people I have ever trusted implicitly. I may never know if my faith in her was justified. I have no such quandary about you.”

Vincent nodded again, not sure what to say. “Yeah, quandaries really suck.” He cleared his throat, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “You know, if I was secretly an evil genius, this is where I'd be cackling about having you in my clutches.”

Head cocked slightly, studying him, Pendergast asked, “ _Are_ you secretly an evil genius?”

“Only on the bizarro side of the street.” Settling back, Vincent said, “What you see is what you get, Aloysius - and thanks. I found out how much you mean to mean when I thought you were dead, so…” He sighed, squeezed Pendergast's hand. “Yeah, I'll go to Scotland with you.”

Pendergast squeezed back. “Thank you. I … may be a bit too close to this case to see everything clearly.”

“Ya think?” Fighting a yawn, Vincent said, “When do we leave? And don't say tomorrow.”

Pendergast's thin lips quirked with a smile. “The day after tomorrow?”

“Yeah, hilarious,” Vincent grumbled good-naturedly, unable to keep his eyes open a moment longer. Thinking about it, though, he cracked one eye open to check. “You were kidding, right?”

Solemn-faced, Pendergast assured him, “I was. Go to sleep.”

“You'll be here when I wake up this time?”

“You have my word.”

Good enough, Vincent thought, drifting off, wondering what awaited them in Scotland, hoping they would both live to tell the tale.

With Pendergast, you never took things like that for granted.


End file.
